


The Man In Black

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Explicit Rating to Come, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Rock Stars, Romantic Fluff, instant chemistry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: Jon Snow is living the rock and roll dream.  Outwardly, he has it all. . .money, fame, adulation, and women.  Yet on the inside, Jon feels hollow, burned out, and used.  He knows that there is something missing in his life, and thanks to Sansa Stark, his brand-new personal assistant and image consultant, Jon just might find exactly what it is that he has been searching for all along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> This story was written for my best friend, vivilove, a die-hard Jonsa shipper and fanfic writer. Merry Christmas, Chic! I hope that you will enjoy living this rock and roll fantasy vicariously through Jon and Sansa!
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not. 
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow, rockstar and guitar virtuoso, has a very rude awakening, thanks to one sassy redhead who takes her job _very_ seriously.

 

“Rise and shine, Mr. Snow!”  Jon heard a woman’s lilting voice chirping cheerfully somewhere in the hazy distance of his bedroom.  “You only have fifty-eight minutes until your photo shoot and interview.  Time to get your rear in gear and get into the shower!”  As the unknown lady’s words slowly began to register on the surface of Jon’s hang-over heavy brain, he carefully lifted his head off the designer-label Egyptian cotton pillow case.  God, he really shouldn’t have pounded down the alcohol last night.

Still burrowed like a groundhog under the plush, black satiny comforter of his king-size bed, Jon tentatively peeked out from the covers to see a tall, professionally-dressed young lady scurrying about his room with such a haughty air of authority that she looked like she damn well owned the place.   _His_  place.

“And you are?”  Jon barely croaked his question.  His voice was deep and rough like sandpaper, his dark brown eyes mere slits.  He saw a glimpse of the redheaded stranger flitting about his bedroom as she jerked open the floor-length black velvet curtains shrouding the enormous picture window overlooking his in-ground pool and gardens.  From the amount of light pouring forth into his previously dark-as-a-cave bedroom, Jon assumed it must be at least midday. 

Squinting at the sudden onslaught of light, Jon groaned miserably as he turned his head away from the annoyingly perky stranger who was still lurking in his bedroom.  He felt like total shit at the moment.  His throat was raw from not only performing with his band, Brothers in Black, on the late-night talk show last night, but also from closing down Mance’s club in the wee hours of the morning at the after-party.  Oh, and the pack of Marlboros and the five rounds of Jack and Coke that he downed with his bandmates weren’t helping matters at present, either.

“The name is Sansa.  Sansa Stark.”  The pretty, svelte young woman smiled brightly at him when she turned to face him.  For a brief second, she just stood there flashing her professionally whitened teeth at him, her hands locked and loaded on her curvy hips before she spun on her sky-high black heels, click-clacking her way along the hardwood floor as she marched directly into Jon’s walk-in closet.

Rolling over with great care, Jon eased himself onto his back.  The black silk top sheet slid down his bare chest all the way to his waist.  Using his hand to massage his forehead hidden underneath his shaggy mop of tousled chocolate curls, Jon desperately wanted two things: more sleep and a hot shower, and not necessarily in that order.  What he didn’t need right now was some groupie or other form of hanger-on that he must have brought home from the club traipsing about his home like she was his girlfriend or something. 

As Jon blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the brightness of his bedroom, he studied the tall young woman as she began plundering his walk-in closet, laying out an outfit for him to wear like his own mother would have done for him when he was a toddler.  In and out she darted from his closet, biting her lip as she obviously attempted to mix and match just the perfect rock and roll ensemble.

Curiously, Jon glanced down at his naked body still hidden within the depths of his bedding.  “Did we sleep together?” he rasped.

“Uh, no, we didn’t,” Sansa scoffed.  She didn’t make eye contact as she strode out from Jon’s closet yet again.  Carefully she placed a pair of faded jeans on the armoire beside his window, rolling her icy blue eyes in amusement while snorting at the suggestion.  “Trust me; if we had slept together, you’d remember it, buddy.”  Pointing to his nightstand, she finally faced him head-on.  “And you need to get out of bed.  Like,  _now_.  Down those three ibuprofen with that glass of water on the nightstand, and  _then,_  get in the shower.”

Now Jon was the one who snorted in amusement.  “Who died and made you my mum?”

“Not your mum, obviously,” Sansa chuckled while continuing to dart in and out of Jon’s closet.  “As of yesterday, I am now your ‘Lord Commander.’”

“What in the. . .what are you  _talking_ about?”  In an obvious huff, Jon squirmed while still on his back, an action which caused the sheet and comforter to bunch up awkwardly around his bare form.

Sansa made it all very clear for his booze-addled brain.  “Mr. Seaworth hired me yesterday,” she began, once again appearing from the depths of his closet.  “I’m your new personal assistant and image consultant.”

“My what?”  Jon groaned.  Right now, he wished that he could get a hold of Davos.  Fuck, how could he do this?  He may be his manager and all, but seriously, Davos couldn’t just go and hire someone to dog him like this.

Sansa sighed deeply, folding her arms in front of her chest as she surveyed the outfit she had assembled for the lazy rock star.  “I’ll explain the details on the way to the interview.  For right now, you need to get up, Mr. Snow.”  Once again, the pesky ginger turned her full attention toward Jon.  The look of sheer determination on her face told Jon that she was absolutely serious.  This woman meant to kick him out of his comfy bed.  Christ, this woman was bossy.  Just who did she think she was?

“So, Davos hired you to boss me around and tell me what to do, eh?”  Jon was indignant.  He couldn’t believe that his manager and long-time friend had hired the cranky rock god a glorified babysitter.

“That’s the idea.”  Sansa punctuated her affirmation with a haughty sniff, giving herself an air of superiority which rankled Jon to his very core.

“Look, I don’t need a babysitter,” he growled.  Still he didn’t make any movement toward either getting out of his bed or covering his bare chest and legs jutting out from the jumbled mess of covers.  “And how the hell did you get into my house in the first place?”

Nonplussed by either Jon’s pout or his state of undress, Sansa forged onward with her explanation.  “I tried calling you this morning to announce my arrival, but you wouldn’t answer your cell phone.  Mr. Seaworth gave me the security code to the gate, so I let myself into your home.  He had warned me that you may be incapacitated due to your round of merriment last night with your mates.  Seeing how lively you are at present, it appears his intuition was correct.”

For the first time since he was so rudely awoken, Jon truly looked at the smug, soon-to-be bane of his existence as he slowly propped himself onto his elbows.  Damn, he had to admit it; she was gorgeous.  Her pale, lightly-freckled skin was on display in her low-cut, form-fitting white long-sleeve sweater.  She was thin but dangerously curvy - always a delicious combo.  A knee-length black leather skirt revealed even more smooth, milky white skin.  Jon could tell the ginger had seriously long hair, probably falling down to her waist, by the volume of curls she had swirled in the back of her head and pinned tightly with an enormous silver hair clip.  And the way she was worrying her plump, crimson-stained bottom lip while she ignored him and surveyed her handiwork. . .great, now he could feel his cock bidding him good morning.

Momentarily lost to his rather obvious appreciation of the pretty woman ordering him about in his own bedroom, Jon cleared his throat.  He willed the rest of his body to ignore his manhood when Sansa suddenly looked at him, effectively catching him in the act of his less-than-obvious appraisal of her form.  Turning abruptly to face him head-on, the young lady tossed the black t-shirt still in her grasp onto his armoire, placing her well-manicured hands on her hips, cocking a ginger eyebrow in a tacit dare.  She was enjoying this.

“Get your fill?” she challenged.  She pursed her lips into an infernally playful smirk.

Jon rolled his eyes at the lady as she chuckled at her own joke.  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he snorted.

Without missing a beat, Sansa continued pestering him.  “Now, for the last time, Mr. Snow, it’s time to get moving.  Out.  Of.  Bed.”  While ordering him about, she raised a hand to wag her index finger at him.  “And whatever you do, don’t make me make you.”  With that warning still floating in the air, she swirled around quickly, making her way to his bedroom door.

Jon hadn’t had a woman talk to him like this in ages.  Being a handsome, young rock and roll guitarist had opened a Pandora’s box when it came to women.  If not throwing themselves at him left and right, they literally would stop at nothing to garner his affections.  Yet this woman. . .she treated him like he was a child.  She clearly assumed that he simply would leap out of bed and obey her like some school-age boy.

Digging his heels in deeply, Jon prepared to let this woman know her place.

“Davos hired you, eh?”  Jon folded his arms in front of his toned chest while calling out to her.  “Well, listen, lady.  I don’t need a ‘personal assistant’  or an ‘image consultant,’ whatever the hell that means when it’s at home.  I can handle my affairs without your help."

“Your  _affairs_  are none of my concern,” Sansa countered.  She turned on her heels, and meandered toward Jon’s bed.  “It is your exploits as of late, however, that have caused your manager to seek my services.  As long as you maintain your image, sustain your reputation, and fulfill your obligations, then you and I will get along famously.”  Standing directly beside him now as she folded her arms in front of her ample chest, she stared coldly into his resistant brown eyes.  “Now, are you going to get out of bed?  Or do I have to make you?”

“ _Make_  me?”  Jon laughed darkly as he rose to a sitting position, not caring one bit that the silky black top sheet fluttered down to his expose his bare hip when he supported his weight on one arm.  “You’re serious?  Do you really think that you can just waltz in here and boss me – JESUS!”

Jon’s moment of resistance died on the vine when Sansa launched forward like a cat springing forth onto a highly-surprised rodent, seizing two enormous handfuls of Jon’s covers, and rapidly wrenched said covers from his unclothed body in one fluid motion, effectively rendering Jon completely and totally exposed.

“The shower is that way,” Sansa smirked as Jon’s gasp of shock echoed throughout the room,.  His hands furiously dove to hide his manhood while she tossed her handful of bedding to the floor.  Like a regal queen, she sauntered toward the bedroom door, utterly satisfied that she had won their initial verbal sparring match.  “Coffee is brewing downstairs.  Breakfast is in the microwave.  I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty.”

“You can’t do this!” Jon shouted.  Quickly, he grabbed the last vestiges of fabric still lying on his bed and furiously jerked the comforter over his lower half.  “You hear me?  You’re my  _employee!_   Who in the hell - ”

Clutching the doorframe with her hand, Sansa looked smugly over her shoulder while interrupting Jon’s pathetic attempt to dismiss her.  “No, Mr. Snow, that’s where you’re mistaken.  I’m not  _your_  employee.  I’m Mr. Seaworth’s employee, and he has provided me with very clear instructions.”

“Oh, really?” Jon growled.  Rising to his feet carefully, he exerted extreme care not to give the irritating redhead a free show as he wrapped the black comforter around his waist and tried to gain his balance.  “And what, dare I ask,  _are_  your instructions?”

The sheer look of amusement which flashed across the attractive woman’s face just about caused Jon to have a come apart right there in the middle of his own bedroom. “My instructions are, and I quote, to ‘keep Jon’s brooding little ass in line’ followed by ‘help Jon get his shit together.’  Extremely vague, yet so profound, wouldn’t you agree?”  And with that volley, Sansa twirled about with the grace of a prima ballerina, humming to herself as she bounded down the massive staircase.

After the annoying yet gorgeous woman disappeared, Jon dropped the silky shield he was using to guard his manhood.  “You’re crazy, Davos,” he grumbled to himself as he stared blankly at the open door, “there’s no way in hell that woman is sticking around here.  Absolutely.   _None_.”

Grabbing the painkillers and water off the nightstand, Jon downed them both in one gulp.  He wiped the beads of water running down his beard with the back of his hand.  Shuffling into the master bath and, cranking the shower to full steam, Jon cautiously climbed into the sizzling hot water.  A feral groan emanated from deep within his chest when the water sluiced down the planes and ridges of his chest.  Bracing himself with one arm against the bright white tiles of his walk-in shower, Jon closed his eyes as he prayed to all the gods that he would begin to feel human again.  He wondered if this is what it felt like after being run over by a Mack truck as the effects of his partying last night made his head pound while slowly scrubbing his head full of shampoo.  For a brief second, Jon had to shut his eyes, letting the scalding water beat down on his scalp in a hopeful act of hammering out the bitter hangover dwelling in his brain.  No luck.  His aching head felt like he had laid down in front of Sam’s bass drum and had allowed Sam to use the kick pedal to smack Jon right between the eyes.  Repeatedly.

Determined to kick Edd’s skinny ass for talking him into going to the party in the first place, Jon muttered various colorful curses under his breath while rinsing his curly hair.  All Jon had wanted to do last night after their performance was head home and spend some quality time working on the new songs that he was writing for the band's next studio album.

Well,  _trying_ to write was more accurate of a description these days.  Jesus, he  _really_  needed to quit clubbing and partying so much.  What he really needed to do was buckle down and come up with some new material.  In less than a week, Jon and the guys were back in the studio.  Jon knew that Davos would absolutely shit a brick if the record label wound up paying for more recording time and he couldn’t produce anything once again.  He had one measly song to his name, and it wasn’t even finished yet.  That was it.  One new work in progress since the band had come off tour.  He was so fucking uninspired these last five months, he wanted to scream every time he picked up his guitar or sat down at the piano.

As Jon stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a fluffy white towel low around his hips and ambled back into his bedroom.  He stopped dead in his tracks, though, when he walked past the outfit laid out for him on his armoire.  Shaking his damp brown curls in total disbelief, he actually caught himself smirking as he dropped the towel to the floor and started getting dressed in the wardrobe selection hand-picked by his unwelcomed and unwanted personal assistant or image consultant or whatever the hell it was that she had called herself.

Now suited in his rock star battle gear, Jon sat down onto the foot of his bed, yanking on his black motorcycle boots before grabbing his wallet and keys from his dresser.  Sniffing in slight amusement, he grabbed his favorite black leather jacket that the irritating redhead most likely had draped on the armchair sitting in the corner by his closet while he was still asleep.

And asleep was where he would still be at the moment if Mistress Sansa hadn’t appeared.  Fully intent on skipping breakfast just to bug the crap out of the high-handed young lady, Jon grabbed his almost-empty pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, smiling to himself as he headed for the stairs.  No matter what it took, he was certain that he could run her pert little ass off by the end of the day.  Davos would just have to get over it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rock and roll is my religion." - Ozzy Ozbourne


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to Jon's manager, Davos, what the handsome guitarist needs is someone who can help Jon regain his focus, someone who can wrangle Jon and his wild ways before the young musician descends any further into the downward spiral of booze and beauties. What Davos truly desires is finding someone who can help Jon find his way back home. Enter stage right, Sansa Stark: the young woman with just the credentials for the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, vivilove - your much awaited update to this Jonsa rock and roll fantasy! Sorry it's taken me so long to post a new chapter. Now that I have my WIPs whittled down to a manageable few, I hope that I can update this story more frequently. I also hope that you enjoy the dynamic between cocky Jon and sassy Sansa!

 

While the handsome rock god was upstairs undoubtedly plotting her demise, Sansa was busying herself in Jon’s massive, designer-label kitchen, leaning on her hip against the charcoal granite counter top while hurriedly swiping and tapping away on her iPad.  Carefully examining Jon’s upcoming schedule for the next two weeks, which she had meticulously prepared late last night using her very thorough notes taken during her meeting with Davos yesterday, she mentally reviewed her conversation with Jon’s frustrated manager as to why she had been hired in the first place.

At the start of his career, Jon’s tremendous talent had catapulted him into the forefront of the rock and roll scene.  He had been dubbed a genius, a guitar virtuoso whose instrument became an extension of his own body while playing.  Adored by the press, they clamored to partake of Jon’s quick wit.  Female fans swooned, and aspiring musicians wanted to be Jon Snow.  Critics hailed the young musician as “the next big thing.”  It seemed as if Jon’s star was destined to shine brightly for the ages to come.

Unfortunately, like all gifted artists, Jon tended to be a bit moody and a tad impetuous.  According to Davos, Jon was garnering a reputation as being “difficult.”  Driven and passionate about his music, Jon was making enemies in the music business for refusing to make any concessions when it came to his craft.  Jon’s reputation was also suffering as of late because the young man typically flew by the seat of his extremely form-fitting pants.  The idea of planning  _anything_  was simply a foreign concept to the musician; he was constantly late to interviews, radio spots, and television appearances.  And over the last few months since coming off tour, Jon’s creative flame had all but burned out.  He seemed more content to party than to play these days.

At the conclusion of Sansa’s lunch meeting yesterday, Davos had sounded desperate.  He needed someone who wouldn’t cow-tow to Jon’s bouts of sullenness.  Davos needed someone who could help Jon regain his focus, someone who would wrangle Jon and his wild ways before the young musician descended any further into the downward spiral of booze and beauties.  What Davos truly desired was finding someone who could help Jon find his way back home.

Enter stage right, Sansa Stark; the young woman with just the credentials for the job.

Sighing deeply after checking the time on her watch, Sansa tutted her tongue behind her teeth.  She had told him to come downstairs in twenty minutes, but Jon was running late.  Of  _course_ , he was.  Davos had warned her of Jon’s lack of timeliness, but today, Sansa smelled a rat.  The little shit was doing it deliberately.  Based on her exchange with the unclothed guitarist this morning in his bedroom, Sansa wouldn’t put it past him to run the shower and then climb back into bed instead of hopping in to remove the smell of stale cigarettes and whiskey from his body.  Toggling her iPad into sleep mode, leaving it on the kitchen counter by the sink and heading straight for the coffee maker, Sansa silently vowed to herself that if Jon didn’t get his finely-sculpted ass downstairs in the next five minutes, she would march into his bedroom and drag him downstairs by the ear, dressed or not.

After pouring herself a mug of straight-up black coffee, Sansa leaned on her hip against the custom-designed counter while surveying her surroundings.  From past experience, she knew that such an enormous, high-end kitchen most likely went unused by the handsome rockstar.  Celebrities rarely bothered to cook for themselves, especially single ones.  She imagined that like most bachelors, Jon probably used the fridge as a beer cooler.  Pushing off the counter, Sansa glided across the tile floor to the fridge, jerking it open to confirm whether her instincts were correct.  Standing in front of Jon’s now-opened, professional-grade stainless-steel fridge, she saw nothing but several stray bottles of beer as well as a pizza delivery box and some leftover Chinese take-out.

How predictable.

While shaking her head in her own amusement, Sansa finally heard the muffled sounds of feet ambling about upstairs.  Good.  That meant Jon wasn’t lying passed out in his king-size bed.  Slamming the fridge closed, she carefully placed her coffee on the counter and grabbed her purse, yanking her cell phone out of its pocket to check her emails and texts before her newest image rehabilitation project came slithering down the staircase.  She knew Jon would attempt to piss her off so she would quit.  Like  _that_  would ever happen.  Pfft.  Sansa Stark was not a quitter.   _Hell_  no.  Her skin might look like porcelain, but this lady was made of steel.  No matter how much the bad-boy rock star fought her, she wouldn’t budge.  Having grown up in the music business, Sansa was as jaded as jaded could be; there was absolutely no stunt Jon Snow could pull that would make her flinch.

Quickly checking her watch yet again, Sansa huffed in irritation.  Surely, Jon should be finished getting dressed by now.  What on earth was taking him so long?  Perhaps Jon had decided to crawl back into bed after all.  Maybe he had locked himself into his bedroom like an angry toddler.  That thought made Sansa’s lips quirk at the corners.  She certainly hoped that Jon was worth the amount of money that Davos was paying her.

When offered the job yesterday, Sansa at first had declined.  Davos was looking for someone to jump into the fire immediately, but she already had a client needing her services, a job which started in a couple of weeks.  From the sound of Jon Snow’s behavior as of late, she would need more than two weeks to get him and his leather jacket in line.  However, when Davos offered her up-front double her asking price if she would bump Jon to the top of her waiting list of celebrities in need of an image overhaul, Sansa abruptly changed her mind.  Double her rate was just too sweet of a deal to ignore.

Plus, Sansa was ready for a change; she needed a break from rejuvenating the careers of antiquated, washed-up singers and musicians.  She had made a name for herself in the industry with her ability to drive aging, conceited, self-indulgent celebrities into changing their ways long enough to resurrect their flailing careers.  Her tenacity and resilience, paired with her no-nonsense attitude, had put her on the map.  It had been the growing buzz about Sansa’s epic talents that had led Davos Seaworth to call her in the first place.  Shaping up a young man who was determined to piss away his music career over loose women and gallons of booze sounded like a vacation.  Compared to her dealings with Oberyn Martell and his prima donna ways, this gig would be a piece.  Of.  Cake.

Lost in her thoughts while scrolling through her phone, Sansa didn’t hear the boot-covered footsteps shuffling down the stairs, nor did she notice the slightly damp mop of chocolate curls stealthily sneaking into the kitchen area from the opposite entrance as she stood bent over the kitchen counter, leaning on both elbows with her back facing the doorway.

“Making yourself at home? Jon snarked.  Purposefully, he sauntered past Sansa, who had emitted a startled squeak of surprise and dropped her phone on the counter upon his sudden appearance.  When his hip intentionally grazed her backside while he walked past her toward the coffee maker, the redhead gritted her teeth as she rose to her full height and spun on her sky-high black heels to face him.  She seethed when she saw the smug look of satisfaction of on the handsome rockstar’s face.

Ratcheting down her irritation, Sansa glared at Jon’s backside while he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot resting in the machine.  “I’ll put a bell around your neck if you try to sneak up on me like that again,” she vowed.  Her blue eyes narrowed tightly when a devilish grin splayed across his bearded face.

“Promises. . .promises. . .” Jon countered.  He shot her a sinfully pleased look over his leather-clad shoulder before adding the cream and sugar.

“Don’t tempt me.”  Sansa haughtily turned away from his highly-pleased countenance to pour her tepid coffee down the drain.  She shoved her mug into the mostly empty dishwasher, and then she turned around to scrutinize him while he sipped his piping-hot concoction.  Jesus.  The man truly was something to see, especially when all polished and buffed to a high gloss, standing there in his leather jacket and boots and jeans like they were a second-skin.  She’d chew off her own foot, however, before she ever let him know that she thought so.

No stranger to the music scene, Sansa had known all about Jon Snow well before she’d taken this job.  One would have to have been hiding in the jungles of the Amazon for the last two years not to know.  His face was everywhere.  His music was played non-stop.  Sansa even owned a copy of his first release,  _The Night’s Watch_ , thanks to her younger sister, Arya, who was a die-hard Brothers in Black fan.  Several of Sansa’s girlfriends had huge crushes on the handsome rockstar, marveling in ecstasy over him while scrolling for pictures online like he was some sort of god.

Humph.  Sansa wasn’t going to look at him like that.  She didn’t look at  _any_ man like that.  Sansa did  _not_ get involved with her clients.  No pissing where you eat – that was Sansa’s motto.  Sure, Jon was terribly talented and definitely one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, but she had been hired to do her job.  This floundering rock icon needed her services to get his life on track.  Sansa Stark was a professional.  He might be cute, but he was a client - nothing more.

Now turning to face her direction, Jon leaned against the counter as he lifted the coffee mug to his lips, slowly downing the rich liquid while Mistress Sansa (God, he _really_ liked that nickname) shot him death rays with her hard, icy stare.  Thanks to the ibuprofen and the hot shower, he was feeling considerably more coherent than during his first run-in with her.  On his way downstairs, he’d decided that the fastest way to run off his brand-new babysitter would be to act like a complete douche.  He already had the reputation of being quite the lothario, even if it was entirely false.  Might as well live up to it if it meant getting the bossy redhead out of his hair.

Without missing a beat, Jon gave her the once over, visibly assessing her assets.  He relished the look of complete indignation she shot his way when his dark brown eyes raked over her long, lithe form.  He had to admit it, though; Sansa was gorgeous.  For the life of him, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a lady as stunning as her.  Even when angry, she was quite fetching.  Too bad he hadn’t met the tall, leggy she-devil under different circumstances.

Clearing his throat, Jon put his wayward thoughts in check and put forth his smuggest smile possible.  “Would you like that, Sansa?”  Slowly, he wet his lower lip with his tongue and looked at her through his thick lashes.  When her eyes widened in shock, he imagined that he had her on the hook.  Time to reel her in.  “Would you like it if I tempted you?” he purred as he sat his coffee down beside him on the counter.

“Really?”  Sansa scoffed at Jon’s pitiful attempt to seduce her.

“What?” Jon asked nonchalantly, like he had no idea what she meant.

“Put the ‘smolder’ away, would you?” she added briskly.  “That crap doesn’t work on me.”

“You’d be the first.”  He couldn’t stop himself from snickering at his handiwork.

“Listen, buddy,” Sansa continued, her hands locked and loaded on her hips as she spoke, “I’m here for one thing and one thing only.”

“I certainly hope so.”  Jon waggled his dark eyebrows at her for added emphasis.  He really should pat himself on the back.  Any minute now, she would tell him off and storm right out the front door.  Perfect.

“Mr. Seaworth is sick of watching you try to flush your career down the toilet,” Sansa all but growled, “and it’s up to me to make sure you don’t.”

“What’s he paying you?”  Jon scratched his beard as he pretended to ponder the question.

“Paying me?”  Sansa snorted in irritation at the sudden diversionary tactic.  “How is that any of your concern?”

“Well, if your services are for sale. . .”  Jon shrugged his shoulders, leaving the unspoken insinuation hanging in the air.  When Sansa’s copper eyebrows flew up to her hairline, he gave himself a mental high-five.  He’d have her running for the hills in record speed at this rate.  Score one for Snow.

Little did he know that Sansa Stark was a force of nature unlike any other woman he had ever met.

“You  _wish_!”  Sansa laughed an actual belly laugh at him.  Dismissing him like a petulant child trying to bait a parent, she raised her well-manicured hand, turning to yank her phone off the kitchen counter.  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, alright?  Mr. Seaworth paid me to get your ass in line, and get your ass in line is exactly what I plan to do.  So, do me a favor, yeah?  Go jack off if you need to before we leave for your interview so I don’t have to listen to this garbage for the next three hours.”  And with that salvo fired his direction, she immediately unlocked her phone and ignored him.

Now Jon was the one whose eyebrows almost launched right off his face.

“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Jon snarled.  He could feel the flush of anger simmering just under his skin.

Without looking at him, she continued to tappity-tap on her electronic gizmo.  “Your worst nightmare, especially if you insist on behaving like a total jerk.”

“Look, ‘Lady Sansa,’ this is  _my_  house, got it?  You can’t just march in here unannounced and think I’ll tow the line every time you - ”

“Until further notice, Mr. Snow, this is  _our_ house.”  Not lifting her eyes from her texting, Sansa paused long enough to point behind her toward the garage door.

Jon followed the path of her long finger, audibly gasping when his eyes locked on the object propped up on the wall under the key rack.

A suitcase.  A purple pilot’s case with a matching purple bag perched on top.

“Oh,  _hell_ no.”  Jon shook his head violently in panic.  “You’re planning to move in here?  With  _me_?  You can’t be serious!”

“Afraid so, Mr. Snow.”

“I thought that you were hired to help me, not live with me!”

“Consider it a perk.”  Finished with her task, Sansa toggled her phone to its blackened screen and stuffed it back into her handbag.  Finally lifting her eyes to meet his, she continued.  “I’m happy that you’ve finally admitted you need help getting your life on track, by the way.  It will make my job so much easier.”

In a fog of disbelief, Jon stood like a statue, blinking yet not moving as his brained tried to reboot.  Davos was fucking nuts.  Davos hadn’t hired Jon a babysitter, no sir.  He’d gone and hired Jon a nanny.  This infuriating woman intended to lodge right here in Jon’s oasis from the outside world.  He hadn’t lived with a woman since moving out of his mom’s place when he was sixteen.  Jesus H. Christ.  What in the hell was Davos thinking, anyway?

“I didn’t say that I needed any help,” Jon said while staring blankly at his boots.  “I’m fine.  Wonderful, in fact.”  He leaned back against the counter once again, bracing himself with his hands.  Damn him to the seven hells if that wasn’t a whopper.  He felt burned out and used up.  Jon hated partying and clubbing with the band, but that’s what good old Alliser wanted him to do.

Fucking record label.  They fucking owned Jon, body and soul.   _You’re a rockstar now, so start acting like one,_ Alliser had commanded Jon when the band had come off tour.  Brothers in Black was the next big thing in rock and roll, but Jon didn’t give a shit if he was the darling of the press.  Christ, what Jon wouldn’t give to go back in time, go back to when it was just the four of them playing live at Mance’s or touring on their small bus.  Jon couldn’t think anymore, and he sure as hell couldn’t write.

With the tension tightly coiled between the two of them, Sansa sighed.  She had managed to flummox Jon, but to be truthful, she kind of felt sorry for him.  For the first time in her short career as a consultant to the stars, she’d found herself working with a client who hadn’t wanted her services.  This situation was definitely unique.

Plus, Davos had advised her that Jon’s image as a bad boy, rock and roll playboy had been thrust upon him by the record label, a fact that didn’t sit well with Jon.  The truth was that Jon Snow was a quiet, introspective, honorable man whose frustration with his recording contract was slowly killing him.  Everyone wanted a piece of Jon.  Everyone did.

 _Help him remember who he is_ , Davos had told her yesterday right before they had parted ways.  Jon was lost in the wilderness of fame, and he needed Sansa to be his guide.

“Look, Mr. Snow - ”

“It’s Jon,” he interrupted with a small sigh.  “Please. . .just call me Jon.”

That comment made Sansa’s lips quirk at the corners.

“Alright, Jon it is then.”  She put her purse on the counter and approached him cautiously.  “You and I got off on the wrong foot today.  Shall we try again?”  Jutting her hand out in front of her, she lifted her chin.  “Hello, Jon.  I’m Sansa Stark, personal assistant and image consultant.  I’m here to help you regain your confidence and to take charge of your life.”

Lifting his eyes to meet hers, Jon couldn’t believe his ears.  “Is that so?”  He sniffed as her title soaked in.  “You can do all of that?”

Smiling sincerely at him for the first time since walking into his bedroom, Sansa nodded.  “Absolutely.  If you’ll let me, that is.”

Jon smiled in return.  He looked at her hand still poised in front of him.  It had been an extraordinarily long time since a woman had treated him like Sansa had done today.  Nowadays, most young ladies went belly-up the minute he shot them a wink.  Jon had long ago grown tired of the vapid, giddy groupies who constantly threw themselves at him and his bandmates.  What Jon craved was the standard issue cliché; he wanted a soul mate.  He wanted a woman who wasn’t awed by his fame and fortune.  He needed someone who wanted to be with Jon Snow simply because they loved him, not because he was the current fad.  He wanted a lady whose passion for music equaled his own.  He needed his muse, and the scary part was, he wasn’t certain that he’d ever find her if he continued to drown in the quagmire of the music industry.

Sansa Stark might not be any of that, but at least she had guts.  And she was honest with him.  Painfully so.  That was definitely something new in this business.

“Alright then,” Jon said.  He took her hand in his, gently squeezing hers while giving it a few friendly pumps.  “So, where do we start?”

“With breakfast,” she grinned while still holding his hand.  “Grab your food and let’s roll.  We’re going to be late if we don’t.”

Jon’s empty stomach suddenly decided to chime in with agreement, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in a very, very long time.  “What did you bring me?” he asked playfully.

Still they hadn’t separated their hands.

“I picked up a breakfast burrito at Hotpie’s,” Sansa answered.  She swallowed slightly when she felt Jon’s thumb scoot back and forth against her skin.  “Extra cheese with the salsa on the side.”  For a brief moment, she felt a tremendous sense of pride that she had quizzed Davos on Jon’s likes and dislikes yesterday.

“Davos told you, right?” Jon chuckled.  He couldn’t hide his amusement that Sansa had brought him one of his favorite take-out breakfasts.  She was good.  He’d give her that.

“Yeah, Davos. . .”  Sansa paused once she’d realized her hand was still locked with his.  Clearing her throat, she pulled away quickly, spinning on her heels to grab her purse.  She was a professional, damn it.  She did  _not_  need some handsome face making her brain all fuzzy.  Slipping back into her hard-as-nails professional demeanor, Sansa continued.  “Now, if you would be so kind, decide which car of yours we’re taking to the interview.”  Waving behind her, she motioned for him to select a set of keys to his varied vehicles.

“Hmm. . .let’s take the Jeep,” Jon replied while tapping the keys on the microwave to reheat his meal.

“I drive, by the way,” Sansa added.  “I don’t want to end up some rockstar statistic with you behind the wheel.”

“C’mon, I’m a terrific driver!” When the microwave beeped its completion, Jon reached in to grab his food and turned to face her.  “Did Davos forget to tell you that?”

“Apparently,” Sansa answered.  How she wanted to kick herself in the ass for grinning at his comment.  “He did warn me that you were a first-class smart ass.”

“Well, we all have to be good at something, right?” Jon shot her a wink before he pounced on his breakfast burrito.

Why that simple, innocuous gesture caused Sansa’s stomach to flutter, she did not know.  God, she had never,  _ever_  let her emotions interfere with her ability to focus while on the job.  Not once had she allowed herself to indulge in a taste of one of her clients, even if she had been propositioned more times than she could count.  She sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.

“So. . .alright then, let’s get to it.”  Inwardly, Sansa chastised herself for sounding so flustered.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Jon laughed.  As he marched past her, breakfast burrito in one hand, he yanked a set of keys off the rack.  When Sansa put out her hand to take them, he pretended to give them to her but snatched them back right before her hand closed on them.  “I drive.  Leave a man some dignity, would you?”  With that taunt, he dangled the keys in the air at her.

Unable to resist smiling at him, Sansa rolled her eyes with more flair than usual.  “Fine.  You can drive.  But God as my witness, if you pull any tricks, then you pull over.  Got it?”

“Yes, mistress,” Jon answered.  He arched his eyebrow as he took another bite of his burrito and waited for her reaction.

“It’s Sansa. . .just call me Sansa.”  Shaking her head while laughing, Sansa shoved past Jon and opened the door to the garage.

The gods save her but this was going to be one hell of an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The rock and roll business is pretty absurd, but the world of serious music is much worse." - Frank Zappa


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After enduring one hell of an interview with the journalist from the guitar magazine, Jon endures one hell of a revelation about his feelings for Sansa after enduring her interactions with the handsome stranger who owns the restaurant where the meeting took place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, vivilove - you're much anticipated update has arrived! And for the rest of you Jonsa fans out there who might be following this tale, I also hope that you get a kick out of Jon's point of view in this chapter as he slowly realizes that he's interested in the leggy, beautiful redhead way beyond just their snark battles!

Thankful that the grueling, hour-long ordeal had finally come to a close, Jon stood outside the rear entrance of the ritzy restaurant where Sansa had demanded they go this afternoon for his interview.  On the drive from his place to The Tower of Joy, the upscale “gentlemen’s club” over on River Road, his brand-new nanny had adamantly refused to let him be seen anywhere near that “skanky dive” (her words) where just last week he’d agreed to meet with the attractive brunette journalist who’d tracked him down through his press agent.

Though Jon had tried to defend himself, wanting to tell her that he hated strip clubs just as much as she did and that he hadn’t been the one to pick the location in the first place, he didn’t bother pleading his case once Sansa had launched into her diabtribe about how he needed to stop slumming at those sleazy places and to start polishing his tarnished reputation.  Bristling like a porcupine at her repeated insinuations that he enjoyed whoring around, he instead had snapped back at her, asking her point-blank if she’d ever even been to the place.  In a stroke of luck, the redhead had accidentally admitted that she’d never been inside a strip club of  _any_ sort.

Man, oh man, how Jon had treasured the flush of embarrassment mixed with wrath which had colored her milky white cheeks while he relentlessly needled her about her lack of “experience.”  If he hadn’t been driving, he would’ve whipped out his cell phone to capture her facial reactions to his rounds of double-entendres and inventive innuendos.  He especially enjoyed the bit where he had offered to give her some “experience” if she needed it, relishing the way Sansa had glared at him like she wanted to take his head right off his shoulders.  If he’d been able to snap a photo of her contorted features, he would’ve enlarged the thing to poster size and given it to her as a token of his undying affection.

Now as the young rockstar basked in the glory of his earlier get on Mistress Sansa, Jon watched her in action once again.  While he casually leaned against the wall near the door to the kitchen, his boot-covered foot resting on the bricks and a cigarette dangling from his lips, he whipped out his lighter and lit up as Sansa, who was worked into a fluffy froth thanks to the female journalist’s conduct during the interview, feverishly click-clacked back and forth on her ridiculously high heels here in the alley, snarling into her cell phone as she ripped said journalist’s boss a new one.

Taking a long, slow drag off his cigarette, Jon exhaled into the crisp autumn air, studying Sansa through his puff of silvery smoke as she fumed in a decidedly different manner.

“You hearing me, Baelish?” the infuriated redhead barked into her phone.  “You’ll be hearing from my legal representation if that alleged reporter of yours dares to print anything from today’s interview.   This interview never happened.  Never.  Happened!”

Jon winced slightly when Sansa immediately segwayed into a second litany of threats and ultimatums.  Christ almighty, the person on the receiving end of her wrath was probably peeing in their pants right about now.

As Sansa continued to chew out the guitar magazine editor, Jon sighed deeply as he continued to smoke.  Part of him felt like he had just run a marathon.  For most of the interview, he’d spent his time not answering questions about his music or the upcoming album but politely diverting the reporter’s painfully not-so-subtle attempts to garner his affections.  Perhaps if Armeca Didn’t-Catch-Her-Last-Name would have focused more on asking Jon about his musical influences and less time trying to get into his skin-tight jeans, then maybe Sansa wouldn’t have flipped her curly lid like she had.

Biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from bursting into a fit of laughter, Jon thought about how enraged Sansa had become when the journalist blatantly propositioned him toward the end of the interview.  When Armeca had leaned dangerously close to him, placing her well-manicured hand on his denim-clad thigh while whispering how she’d love to take the interview to a more private location (preferably her place, she had purred), Sansa lost her shit right then and there.  The unique manner in which his self-appointed savior had dressed down the flummoxed reporter was a work of art, really.  It had been a thing of beauty, a truly masterful ass chewing unlike Jon had ever witnessed, Alliser Thorne’s included.

Flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette, Jon shook his head in disbelief at how someone so utterly gorgeous could appear so terribly frightening all at the same time.  Sansa was like a Goya painting. . .or the aftermath of looking directly into the sun.  He had to admit it, though; Sansa Stark took her duties as his image consultant  _very_ seriously.

“Ugh, I  _hate_  that man,” Sansa growled while mashing the end button on her touch screen.  “He’s the absolute  _worst._   Always has been, too.”

“You know the editor?”  Jon’s curious eyes narrowed at her as he inhaled yet again.

“God, yes,” the irritated redhead huffed.  She rolled her frustrated eyes while violently shoving her cell phone into her hand bag.  “He’s an old family friend, or should I say, ‘alleged’ friend.”

Jon finished his smoke and scrubbed the butt of his cigarette against the bricks before tossing it to the ground.  “I didn’t know you had any friends,” he taunted her, “but then, with your bubbly personality, how could you not?”

“Stuff it, would you?”  Though she sounded angry at him, Sansa’s smirk betrayed her enjoyment of their brand-new round of give-and-take.  “I have plenty of friends.”

Jon ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth as he prepared to engage her in yet another battle of the wits.  Until Sansa had showed up today, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a lady not be interested in him.  It had been a very, very long time since a woman had treated him like a leper loser the way she did.  And what, exactly, did it say about him that he was actually starting to  _enjoy_  it?

“Name me one,” he provoked her, eagerly awaiting her imagined saucy retort.

Instead of hearing her reply, however, Jon’s merriment was interrupted by some handsome blonde guy with shoulder-length ringlets and a high-end suit.

“Loras!” Sansa beamed widely.  Now completely ignoring Jon, she turned her full attention to the tall guy exiting the back door of the restaurant.

“Sansa!  It’s so good to see you, love,” the guy smiled sincerely at her.  He widened his arms to embrace her in a tight hug.

 _And whom might this be?_   Jon pushed off the wall, unconsciously throwing back his shoulders and standing up straight as he gave the stranger the once-over.

“Thanks again for letting use your place on such short notice.”  Sansa looked at this guy like he was some sort of Greek god.  “You’re a life saver!”

“Anything for my favorite girl,” Loras smiled.  He dove in and nabbed a chaste kiss on her plush lips.

Huh.  Now Jon was extra curious.  And he was starting to hate the guy, though he didn’t know why.

“Tell me, Sansa,” the blonde man inquired, “how is that beautiful mother of yours?”  His whole face lit up like a Christmas tree when Sansa giggled.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Sansa replied while playfully swatting Loras’s chest, “but you’d better get over there to see her soon.  She’s asked about you for weeks.”

Loras grinned mischievously at Sansa.  “I so need to go visit.”

“Y’know, Daddy’s birthday party is this Friday,” Sansa hummed, “and you and the rest of the family are invited.”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing a Stark family gathering!” Loras exclaimed.

While the nauseating scene continued, Jon rolled his brown eyes in disgust.  It was like he didn’t even exist anymore.  The pair acted like they were completely alone out here in the alleyway while they pawed at one another.  What was it with these two, anyway?  Were they dating, or were they just close friends?  And why the hell did Jon even care?

Clearing his throat to remind the cuddly couple that a third party was present, Jon cocked a dark eyebrow in defiance when Sansa finally looked at him over the well-built guy’s shoulder.

“Oh, Jon. . .I forgot you were standing there.”  Sansa finally pulled away from the pretty dude but grabbed onto said dude’s hand instead.  “Loras, this is Jon Snow, certified rock god and guitar hero.”

“Nice to meet you, Jon,” the man with the perfectly straight white teeth smiled as he stuck out his other hand.  “I’m a huge fan!”

“Yeah. . .thanks,” Jon mumbled in return as he accepted the man’s handshake.  He couldn’t help himself when he gave the posh guy’s hand an over-the-top squeeze, well, because the cheeseball deserved it.  Jon was shocked, however, that the glitzy dude not only didn’t cringe, but he also returned Jon’s hand clamp with an equally painful grip.  And for the record, Jon did  _not_ like the smug way that the fucker raised his blonde eyebrow in silent challenge.  Not.  At.  All.

“And Jon, this is Loras Tyrell, co-owner and manager of Les Hautes Jardins, the finest, upscale restaurant in all of Westeros!”  Sansa was beginning to sound like a silly high school girl.  She covered her mouth and giggled when Loras leaned in to nudge her with his shoulder.

Jon grimaced at his babysitter’s behavior.  He looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted feathers.  Where in the hell had his Sansa disappeared to?

_Wait. . .my Sansa?_

“Sansa, really!” Loras replied shyly.  Suddenly he leaned down to whisper something in her ear which in turn caused the redhead to throw her head back in sheer delight.  As she chuckled at whatever witty thing the handsome guy had said to her, Jon felt a twinge of something gnawing his gut which he couldn’t quite place.

“So, you own this place, eh?” Jon interjected through pursed lips.  He was finding it very difficult to make small talk with the man who was behaving so intimately with Sansa.

“I do.”  Loras nodded politely in return.  “It’s been in our family for three generations.”

“His older brother is an amazing chef,” Sansa chimed in.  She barely glanced at Jon before gazing upon Loras once again.  “And his younger sister runs all of the behind-the scenes stuff.”

Loras smiled even more impossibly wide at Sansa.  “She just arrived, by the way.  Be sure you stop by and say hello to Margaery before you leave, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I will,” Sansa answered.   Still her entire focus was on the elegant young man next to her.

“Well, I hate to run, but I have to leave for a business meeting.”  Loras sighed wistfully, looking directly into Sansa’s baby blues.  “I’ve been asked to cater Stormlands Industries’ annual Christmas party again this year, and you _know_ how long it takes me to make sure everything is absolutely perfect.”

“Tell Renly I said hello,” she replied.  Shooting Loras a knowing wink, Sansa nudged him in return.  Jon was certain there was some sort of inside joke transpiring between the two of them, but damn him if he didn’t have a clue what it was. . .or why he wished he knew what it was.

“I’ll be sure to, love,” Loras replied.  Once again, the swanky dude leaned in for yet another quick kiss on Sansa’s cheek.

Yup.  Jon was sure of it.  Now he  _really_  hated this guy.

When Loras finally released Sansa, he turned to face the seething rock star head-on.  “Jon, it’s been a pleasure,” he smiled.  “Please come back any time.”  With a parting wave directed at Sansa, Loras briskly walked back inside the restaurant in his über-expensive leather shoes.

Jon’s narrowed brown eyes bored holes into the metal door as it shut.  He suddenly had the urge to punch something.  Or someone, in this case.  With his fists tightly balled up by his sides, he could feel the tension coursing through his veins.

Jesus, what was wrong with him?

“Jon?” he heard Sansa asking from somewhere behind him.

“Yeah?”  Still scowling at the closed door, Jon felt like a coiled spring.

“Are you alright?”

He heard her heels clicking toward him, but this time, Jon didn’t reply.  He didn’t move.  He didn’t even blink.  Instead, he just stood in the alley of the restaurant frozen like a statue, his brain racing as he tried to figure out why he was so damn angry.

“Is something wrong?”  Sansa hesitated, the sounds of her footwear ceasing where she stood.

Oh, there was something wrong alright, but what in the hell  _was_  it?  What was it about that Loras guy that had Jon on edge?

At lightning speed, Jon mentally reviewed Loras’s behavior during the brief time he had been in Jon’s presence.  Loras had been nothing but cordial and polite.  At the last minute, he’d allowed Sansa to use his restaurant for a meeting location even though the place wasn’t due to open for another couple of hours.  He’d even invited Jon to come back to his place, even though Jon doubted Mr. Fancy Pants’ sincerity on that one.

And Loras had been nothing but respectful and sweet with Sansa.  He’d treated her like a princess, come to think of it.  All the touching and the hugging. . .and the kissing. . .Sansa had looked at Loras like he was her valiant knight in shining armor, not some annoying, pesky bug that she wanted to crush with her heels.  Apparently that treatment was reserved just for Jon.

“Hey,” he heard Sansa’s voice, now soft and full of concern, directly behind him as her hand gripped his shoulder.  “What’s going on?”

That snapped him out of his hazy fog of budding self-awareness.

Abruptly Jon spun on his heels, jerking away from her touch like he’d been scorched.  “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied.  He ran his hands through his chocolate curls while desperately trying to get his shit together.  “There’s nothing wrong at all.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked.  Her pale eyes were scrunched in what looked like genuine concern.

Without warning, Jon snapped as their little show replayed in a loop inside his addled brain.  “Your boyfriend is quite the charmer.  You’re a lucky lady.”

“My boyfriend?”  Sansa appeared absolutely puzzled by Jon’s statement.

While his heart thrummed in his chest cavity, Jon’s mouth and throat felt parched like a man dying of thirst.  His pulse felt like the reverberations off Edd’s bass, a low pitched yet rapid hum until Sansa took a step forward, making his blood pressure skyrocket.  Jon didn’t know why, but he needed to put some distance between them.  Like, right now.

“I’m fine.  Just fine.  Can we go now?” He didn’t wait for Sansa when he turned abruptly and hurried down the alley toward the parking space he’d pulled into when they had first arrived at the restaurant.  He could hear her catching up to him as she broke into a jog.

“Jon, would you wait? Where are you going?” she called out to him as he pressed onward.  He didn’t stop until he made it to his Jeep.

“Home,” Jon grumbled.  He wrenched open the rear driver’s side door.  He swiftly removed his leather jacket and tossed it into the backseat.  He was on fire, like he was burning from the inside out.

Sansa huffed at him when she caught up to him, her hands darting to her hips as she defiantly widened her stance.  “What in the world has gotten into you?  You’re acting weird, even for you.”

Before now, Jon would’ve have taken her bait like a fish in a brook.  Yet now, all he could do was lean forward to brace himself on the door frame of his Jeep.  His head was spinning so fast, he felt dizzy.

Why did it bother him so much if she had a boyfriend?  He didn’t own her.  Hell, she wasn’t even his employee.  She was Davos’s employee, for Christ’s sake.  She could do what she wanted and with whom. . .right?

“I just. . .” Jon mumbled.  Still he wasn’t able to process the gamut of his emotions right now.  “I don’t know. . .”

“Maybe your blood sugar is dropping or something.”  Sansa sighed heavily as she moved closer to him, patting him gently on his back.  “You haven’t eaten much today, and you did stay up all night partying with your buddies.”

_That sounds good.  Let’s go with that story._

Jon nodded carefully, hoping that he wasn’t about to faint.  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Gimme the keys.”  Sansa stuck out her hand as she waited for him to comply.  “I’ll drive.”

Jon obeyed her without question or comment for a change.  He dug in the side pocket of his jeans and fished out his keys.  Once he’d handed them to her, he shuffled around the front of the Jeep to the passenger seat.

“We’ll get you a bite to eat once we get you back to your place, okay?” Sansa asked as they climbed inside the Jeep and strapped in.  “You look kinda green around the gills.”

Jon leaned back against the head rest.  “Sure, whatever.”

“And if you think you’re going to barf, gimme some warning, would you?” Sansa continued as she stuck the keys in the ignition.  “I don’t want to be stuck in here with the smell of vomit.”

This time, Jon didn’t respond.  With his eyes heavy as lead, he allowed them to shut as Sansa backed up the Jeep, pulling out of the parking space before heading to the highway.  The cool breeze whipping around them in Jon’s open-topped Jeep felt divine, bringing him some much-needed relief.  As they drove onward in silence, he wondered how long Sansa and Loras had been together.  They seemed so utterly comfortable with each other, so completely in love.  What Jon wouldn’t give to have a woman look at him the way Sansa had looked at that well-dressed fop.

Years on the road and in the public eye had all but shattered Jon’s dreams of finding a lady who’d love him for who he was, not for who they wanted him to be.  Throughout it all, he’d has his fair share of female attention, sometimes even dabbling in a bit of companionship as well.  Yet no one had sparked that flicker of want in him that he needed.  Jon yearned for a love that burned like an eternal flame, passionate and all-consuming, the kind of love that could simultaneously drive a man insane and inspire his muse.  He thought that he’d found that with Ygritte, though it hadn’t taken long for him to realize that she only managed to drive him crazy.

As Jon rode along in his Jeep, listening to the sounds of the bustling traffic and Sansa’s voice softly humming some song to herself while she navigated the roadways, the bare hint of a smile splayed across his bearded face.  Sansa was unlike any woman he’d ever known.  She might look like sex on legs, but the woman was hell on wheels.  She didn’t mind taking charge, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.  Ygritte had those same qualities, but she didn’t give a shit about anyone else but herself.  Even though Sansa was being paid to help Jon, he got the feeling that she actually cared about him.  Why else would she have all but pounced on the unsuspecting reporter like a mother wolf protecting her pup?

For the first time in ages, Jon had met his match when it came to Sansa.  She was smart and funny, sassy and confident.  She was equal parts snarky and sincere.

And when the image of Loras bending down to place a kiss on Sansa’s lips suddenly flashed in Jon’s brain, the realization as to why he had freaked out back in the alley of the restaurant hit him.

Holy hell.

It was impossible.

Jon was jealous.  He was jealous, and he had acted like an idiot.  A jealous idiot, to be specific.

But why was he jealous?  He had no reason to be jealous.  Sansa had a boyfriend.  So what?  It wasn’t like he couldn’t snap his fingers and have any woman he wanted hanging all over him, too.  Not that Jon enjoyed that sort of thing, but still.  He could if he wanted to.

But wait just a minute. . .

Was Jon jealous because Sansa had someone and he didn’t, or was he jealous because someone had Sansa and he didn’t?

The lightbulb went off inside Jon’s head.  For the first time since Sansa had sashayed into his bedroom to kick his sorry ass out of bed and to drag him to the interview from hell today, he finally understood why he’d been enjoying their banter. . .why he’d taken great pride in needling her and riling her up.. .and why he was so unbelievably pissed when that dude had showed up on the scene.

Jon was interested in Sansa.  And not just as a tool for honing his sarcasm skills, either.

Sweet baby Jesus on a bus.

_Holy shit. . ._

Like he’d risen from the dead, Jon’s eyes popped open so fast that he saw double.

“You feeling better?” Sansa sounded concerned as she turned the steering wheel, pointing them toward the private drive which led to his mansion.

Gulping at her question, Jon put on a fake smile.  “Yeah, I am.”

Sansa snorted as they approached the gate to his place.  “Good.  I’m glad to hear it.  You had me worried back there.”

“You were worried about me?” he rasped.  He watched her as she leaned outside the Jeep to punch in the passcode on the keypad outside the gate.

“Of course, I was!”  The redhead scoffed at him like his question was the most ridiculous thing she’d heard all day.

“It’s your job, I know,” Jon sighed.

As the gate widened before them, Sansa turned to face him, a look on her face which Jon couldn’t quite decipher.

“It might be my job,” she began, a gentleness in her voice he’d not been privy to until now, "but I want to see you succeed, Jon.  I want you to be happy and fulfilled with your career.  That’s why I took this gig.”

“Yeah, right.”  Jon hoped that he didn’t look like a hurt puppy right about now.

“I’m serious.  You might be a pain in the ass, but you’re a nice guy.”

“I am?  I’m a nice guy?”

“Sometimes,” she countered with a smirk.

“How can you say that after all of my taunts today on the way to the interview?”  He smiled in return and shifted in his seat so that they were looking directly at one another.

“Ah, I deserved that.”  Sansa brushed a stray ginger lock out of her face.  “I shouldn’t have judged you so harshly.  I mean, you’re a rock star.  It’s not like you’re going to hang out in tea parlors or sit around discussing Nietzsche.”

“I’d be happy to drink tea and sit around discussing Nietzsche.”  Jon didn’t bother to mask the sincerity in his voice.  “I just don’t know anyone who wants to do that.”

“Well, you’re in luck that I’m here for the next two weeks, then,” she laughed in return, finally hitting the gas to bring the Jeep to the garage.  “Consider it a perk.”

A few moments of silence passed as Jon tried to process her sudden softening demeanor.  He also suddenly felt like a heel for acting like a jerk to Loras.

Jon cleared his throat as they sat in the massive drive while waiting for the garage door to lift.  “Loras seems like a nice guy, too.”

“Yeah, he’s amazing,” Sansa agreed as she pulled in carefully.

“He’s a lucky man.”  Jon’s eyes widened the very instant that he’d let his inner thoughts leak out.

As Sansa brought the Jeep to a halt, twisting the keys and yanking them out of the ignition, she didn’t look at Jon right away.  Wherever her thoughts had traveled, he couldn’t tell.  From the frustrated expression on her face, he thought she was about to let him have it.

“Loras and I go way back,” she began.

Jon swallowed hard.  “Look, Sansa, you don’t owe me any - ”

“Just listen, would you?”

Shutting his mouth for once, Jon just nodded.

Sansa plowed onward.  “I’ve been friends with his sister forever.  I grew up with them.”  Pausing momentarily, she inhaled and exhaled sharply before she continued.  “And even though this is absolutely  _none_  of your business, Loras is  _not_  my boyfriend.”

“Oh?”  Jon could’ve kicked himself in the ass for the way his voice cracked like a teenager.

“No, he’s not.”

“Really?”

“He’s gay.”

“He’s. . .he’s what?”

“Gay.”

“As in. . .not interested in women?”

“That’s usually what gay means these days.”

“I see,” Jon hummed.  He couldn’t suppress his smile.  “So, good old Loras is gay.  Huh.”

“Satisfied?”  Sansa raised a ginger brow in challenge.

As she sat there with her arms folded in front of her chest, Jon wondered if she was waiting for him to bait her once again.  He so could feel the delicious tension ratcheting back up between them while they silently stared each other down.  Perhaps he wasn’t the only one around here who enjoyed a good verbal sparring match.

“Hardly,” Jon scoffed.  Donning his best rendition of an aloof, bad boy attitude, he jumped out of the Jeep.  “You haven’t even made me a snack yet.”  Whatever had been ailing him earlier had miraculously dissipated the instant that “Loras” and “gay” had come out of Sansa’s plump lips.  He felt reborn.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Sansa groaned as she elegantly swiveled in her seat.  She stepped down from the Jeep like a true high-born lady.  “I’m not your cook.  Or your maid, either.”

“Then what  _are_  you good for, hmm?”  Jon’s whole body quivered in excitement that maybe, just maybe, Mistress Sansa was about to give him a what-for.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  Sansa shoved past him and jerked open the door leading from the garage into his house.

 _Yes.  Yes, I would,_ Jon thought as he watched her while she clickety-clacked into his place like she damn well owned it.

Talk about one hell of a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You only pass through this life once. You don't come back for an encore." - Elvis Presley


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finished unpacking her suitcase as she lingers in the guest room where she’ll be staying for the next two weeks, Sansa reflects upon her wild day with Jon. She also struggles with her budding self-awareness - the handsome rockstar, snark and all, has ignited a fire inside her which she's desperate to put out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Vivi - it's back! Rockstar Jon has returned! I'm so sorry it's taken me ages to get this fic updated. You know how much I've struggled to get time to write and to get motivated when I do. Hopefully, this next semester of teaching won't be as tough on me - keep your fingers crossed!
> 
> For any other Jonsa lover out there who might be reading this tale, I hope you'll have fun with this update. Whether you've just found this story or you've come back for more, please let me know if you're enjoying it. Like all fanfic writers, positive feedback helps me stay motivated. Well, that and my sweet Vivi's puppy dog eyes when I'm delinquent in giving her a hit of Jon in leather. *winks*

Finally unpacked and settled in her home-away-from-home for the next two weeks, Sansa took a long look around the spacious guestroom in which Jon had placed her after they’d returned from his interview for Baelish’s guitar magazine.  Though hours had passed since then, she still seethed at the way that sleazy woman had tried to manhandle her client.  Nobody, and Sansa meant _nobody_ , copped a feel on her watch.  Uh-uh.  Sure, Jon might live in the public eye, but that didn’t grant total strangers permission to squeeze the merchandise.

Just thinking about that stupid reporter caused a rush of anger to overtake the feisty redhead.  If there was one thing Sansa couldn’t stand about this business, it was the way some people felt a sense of entitlement to a celebrity.  As a kid, she’d watched her own mother deal with this same sort of bullshit.  Screaming, horny fans trying to touch her husband everywhere they went; women throwing their underwear at him on stage or sending dirty photos in the their fan mail; everyone wanting a piece of him like they bloody well deserved it.  How her mom had carried herself with the grace and dignity she’d managed in those situations with her dad was beyond her.  When the reporter had slowly slid her hand up Jon’s thigh without his consent, all Sansa had wanted to do was bitch-slap that woman into next week.

As soon as the reporter alluded to bedding the rock star, Sansa had shot off like a firecracker.  Even she’d been surprised by the amount of vitriol spewing forth from her mouth while she dressed down the startled woman seated so closely to Jon.  The terrified woman had looked like she might wet herself right there in the middle of the restaurant while Sansa chewed her a new one.  And when the alleged reporter hurriedly gathered her things and fled her verbal execution, Sansa had to resist the urge to chase her down and finish the job.

A slight smirk slid across Sansa’s face as she bent down to grab her now-empty suitcase, shuffling barefoot over to the enormous walk-in closet and shoving it inside.  Oh, if only she could’ve caught Jon’s bewildered expression on camera.  While she’d been in the midst of chewing up and spitting out his assailant like some wild wolverine, the rock and roller’s dark eyebrows had flown up to his artfully tousled hairline so fast, Sansa was certain that she’d felt the wind whipping off them.  With his mouth slightly agape, his wide-eyed stare all but burned a hole through the side of her ginger head.  That in and of itself would’ve been worth the price of admission just to see Jon Snow at a loss for words.

The man in black might think he was God’s gift to women, but at least he’d seen what _this_ woman could do when push came to shove.  That ought to teach him a thing or two about teasing her.  It served him right, too, for all those snarky comments he’d pummeled her with on their drive to the interview.

Emerging from the closet, Sansa heard her cell phone jing-jangling from the deep, dark depths of her oversized handbag perched on the nightstand.  Quickly, she rummaged through the various contents to unearth her phone.  She snorted when she saw who was calling her.

“I’m dying over here,” the woman said as soon as Sansa had mashed her touch screen.  “You have to send me a photo or something.”

Sansa grinned.  Margaery could be so melodramatic sometimes.

“He’s a client.  You know I can’t violate his privacy like that.”

Margaery purred into the phone.  “I’d violate a thing or two of his if I could get a hold of him.”

Rolling her eyes even though Margaery couldn’t see her, Sansa sat down on the edge of the guest bed while she continued to talk.  “He’s just some guy, you know.”

“‘Just some guy?’  Have you even looked at him?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Margaery scoffed at her friend’s continued display of stoicism.  “Seriously, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Resist the urge to shove that bad boy onto his back and ride him into the sunset.”

Sansa gnawed her bottom lip as her friend’s comment wafted over her.  There was no denying it.  Jon _was_ easy on the eyes.

“I bet he’s even more gorgeous in person, isn’t he?” Margaery continued.  “Am I right, or am I right?”

Though she was alone in the guest room, Sansa glanced toward the closed bedroom door.  Truly, Jon was gorgeous.  One would have to be blind or dead to not appreciate his physical gifts, too.  Of all the clients she’d had in her short tenure as an image consultant to the stars, Jon Snow was by far the fairest of them all.

Yet Sansa wanted to lie and say “no.”  She really did.  And she almost said no until an image of Jon, casually draped across his chair during the interview, flashed across her eyes.  He’d not bothered to remove his motorcycle jacket when they’d arrived.  Sansa remembered how flustered she’d become when he’d widened his legs while listening to the reporter babble, unconsciously manspreading in his seat such that his skin-tight jeans hugged him in all the right places.  With his long hair and scruffy beard, he’d looked like the living embodiment of rough sex.

Sansa sighed in defeat.  Thank God that Jon wasn’t around to hear her response.  She’d never live it down.

“He’s not bad.”

“Not bad?  Not BAD?”  Margaery sounded like she was on the verge of succumbing to an aneurism.  “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Once again, a sudden flash of Jon raced across Sansa’s brain.  She recalled how agitated she’d been while subjected to his litany of innuendos about her not being “experienced.”  She remembered the way his chocolate curls had danced around his face thanks to the open-top Jeep. . .the lilt of his laugh and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. . . the sinful way his tongue had slipped across his lower lip while he’d teased her mercilessly. . .

Sansa drew in a deep gust of air, exhaling rapidly to slow down her breathing.  She shook her head vigorously to clear her wayward thoughts.  Catching a glimpse of herself in the ornately carved mirror hanging above the bureau, she studied her reflection.  Man, was she glad Jon wasn’t around to see her.  Her normally milky-white skin was blazing a fiery hue, her skin unusually warm to the touch.  She was actually starting to feel damp in a few choice places, too.

_Don’t, Sansa.  Do NOT go there!_

“Look, I gotta go.”  Clearing her throat, she pushed some wayward locks of hair out of her eyes.  She sure hoped she didn’t sound as worked up as she felt right now.  “Call you later?”

Margaery sniffed in amusement.  God save her if Margaery caught a whiff of what was going on inside her head.

“You are _so_ sending me a photo before you’re done with this gig.”  With that parting salvo, Margaery ended the call.

Relieved that her conversation was finished, Sansa gritted her teeth and told herself to rein it in.  She was a professional lady who was in the middle of building a successful career.  She didn’t have time for a man right now, especially a successful rockstar who was probably sleeping his way through half the female population.  She’d never taken a taste of a client, and she sure as hell didn’t need to start now.

Jumping to her feet, Sansa tried to distract herself.  She peeled off her form-fitting, white long-sleeve sweater and tossed it to the floor. Opening a draw to the dresser where she’d placed some of her folded clothing, she rifled through the contents and grabbed a faded t-shirt she’d had for years, stuffing her arms in the holes and quickly pulling it over her head.  Feeling cooler now, she quickly removed her black leather skirt and hosiery, shucking them both to the floor.  She dug around in a second drawer until she located her black yoga pants.  With a few masterful pulls and tugs, she loosed her long ginger locks and let them free, running her fingers along her scalp to ease the strain from her updo as her hair cascaded down her back.

Though she felt better, Sansa shook her head.  Even though the heat of her skin was cooling now, she was still all warm and gooey on the inside as she thought about the way Jon had behaved after they’d arrived at his place post interview.  He’d been quite cordial, actually, which surprised her since he’d acted like a dick most of the day, especially when he’d been introduced to Loras.  She’d also surprised herself when she made them both a snack after vowing moments earlier that she wouldn’t.

Over their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk, they’d chatted and joked while discussing Jon’s pending schedule for the rest of the week.  Sansa had expected him to gripe and complain the whole time while listening to the itinerary she’d pulled together based on her notes from lunch with Mr. Seaworth.  Instead, Jon had nodded and smiled, even going so far as to _thank_ her for doing all of this for him.  And after they’d finished eating, he floored her when he’d insisted that she let him carry her luggage upstairs for her.

Flopping onto the lushly decorated guest bed, Sansa lay on her back as she stared blankly at the bright white ceiling.  What exactly _had_ happened outside of Les Hautes Jardins, anyway?  Jon had behaved like a petulant child when Loras had come out into the alley to say hello.  He didn’t know Loras from Adam, yet he’d automatically assumed that Loras was her boyfriend.  She and Loras had been friends for years, and to be honest, once long ago before he’d come out, she’d been infatuated with him.  Loras was tall, smart, and gorgeous with his golden curls, blue eyes, and chiseled features.  So sue her.  What teenage girl wouldn’t have been in love with a guy like that?  Did Jon think he was the only good looking guy in town?

Thinking about Loras led to Sansa wondering what Jon was really like if one got to know him.  Having grown up in the music business, she’d seen it all.  She was just about as jaded as a young lady could be.  Plenty of famous folks embraced the rock and roll lifestyle, though not all of them did.  Until today, however, Sansa had wrongly assumed that Jon was one of the former.  From the headlines he was generating these days, she’d imagined his life was nothing but hard partying, late nights, and fast women.

She’d even needled him about it when he’d turned to exit the guest room so she could get her things unpacked in privacy.  She’d laughed at him then, snickering how he was probably going to sneak out tonight instead of staying in to rest his voice for tomorrow’s band rehearsal like she’d suggested.  Openly, she’d scoffed at him as he stood there, silently taking her crap, while she accused him of what she imagined he might do when not under her watchful eyes.

Imagine her shock when instead of firing a volley her way, Jon had merely run his hand through his shaggy curls.  His face fell slightly right before he’d said that he was planning to go downstairs to his home studio, grab his guitar, and work on a song for the upcoming album.  A tiny smile returned to his face though when he’d confessed that he much preferred the solace of his studio to the company found at the clubs.

Jesus, Sansa had felt like an absolute heel.

And it was right then and there as she lay on the guest bed that Sansa had herself a first-class epiphany.  Jon Snow really wasn’t an arrogant jerk like she’d imagined he’d be when she took this gig.  Well, at least not _all_ the time.  He really _was_ a nice guy.  Mr. Seaworth had painted a rather glorified portrait of the young guitarist during their business lunch, but she’d dismissed his version of Jon due to the nature of their relationship.  Managers were meant to sell their clients, just like she was meant to protect hers.  Sansa hadn’t bargained on his description actually being true.

Lost in her thoughts, Sansa’s stomach suddenly interrupted.  Aside from her snack with Jon earlier in the afternoon, she’d not put much else in her body all day.  Rising to her bare feet, she grabbed her phone and opted to slip downstairs to order some take out for the two of them for dinner.  On her way down the curved staircase, she noticed how quiet the mansion was at present.  She figured Jon was either still in his home studio or had finally succumbed to sleep.

Once in the massive kitchen, she called the local Indian place, ordering her favorite meal as well as Jon’s.  She had to hand it to herself; she took pride in the way she got to know her clients.  Still alone while waiting for the food to arrive, Sansa began to slowly wander about the main floor of the huge house.  She lingered a while in the eclectically designed living room, examining the various awards and artwork hanging on the walls.  She looked up at the cathedral ceiling and through its skylights, drinking in the sight of the darkening night sky.  The stars sure were beautiful tonight, so clear and bright as they shone into the living room.  It might even be considered romantic under the right circumstances.

“Hey,” she heard Jon’s voice behind her.

Spinning on her heels, Sansa couldn’t help but grin back at him.  “Hey, yourself.”  Trying to be discreet, she quickly looked him up and down.  He’d lost the jacket and boots somewhere along the way, and he’d untucked his t-shirt from his jeans.  Barefoot like her, he looked comfy and relaxed.

As Jon leaned against the doorframe of the living room, he glanced toward the sky lights which Sansa had been studying before returning his eyes to her.  “You all settled in?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Jon shoved off the woodwork, and from behind his back, he pulled two bottles of beer.  “Interested?”

_What a choice of words. . ._

Sansa chuckled when she took the already-opened bottle from him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Such the gentleman,” she said before taking a small sip.  Beer wasn’t her thing, but after the day she’d had, well. . .why not?

Jon’s face lit up with merriment.  “I can be if the mood strikes.”

Hoping that her smile didn’t betray her enjoyment of their little banter, Sansa made a show of scoffing at him while he took a swig from his beer.  “I went ahead and ordered us some dinner, by the way.”

Nodding in appreciation, Jon wiped the few droplets from his mustache with the back of his hand.  “Wow, thanks.  I’m starving, actually.  So, what did you get me?”

“Chana saag, extra spicy, with a side of garlic naan.  Oh, and a mango lassi, too.”

Jon’s eyes widened.  “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”  Sansa lifted her beer to take another tiny sip.

“How do you always know exactly what I want and how I like it?”

Sansa choked when the cold liquid hit the back of her throat.  Coughing and sputtering, she tried to regain some semblance of dignity.

Jon quickly moved closer.  He firmly patted her on the back as he laughed.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m. . .I’m fine,” Sansa managed in between coughs.  As Jon’s pats slowed down, morphing into something akin to a rub, she looked at him through her long lashes.  When he pulled his bottom lip under the top row of his teeth as he stared at her, she started to feel warm all over again.  Part of her wanted to bark at him to keep his hands to himself while the other part wanted to tell him to keep going.

Sansa suddenly blinked under Jon’s scrutiny.  This had to stop.  It had to stop right now.  She was being ridiculous.  What in the hell had gotten into her today?  Where had the snarky, self-assured Sansa gone?  And why was everything about him making her stomach flutter all of a sudden?

“Dinner should be here soon. . .” she said as she pulled away.  “I’m just gonna go grab a water.”  Finally free from Jon’s touch, Sansa hurriedly rested her beer on the glass coffee table and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Hey,” Jon called out after her.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

She swallowed hard.  He sounded so incredibly serious.  Had he felt it too?  Had he sensed the way her body had responded to his attention?

Lifting her chin, she forced herself to act indifferent as she turned to face him again.  “Yeah?”

When her eyes locked with Jon’s, he looked absolutely feral.  She was certain that he was looking at her like he wanted her.  Before she could blink, though, the look was gone.

“You forgot to use the coaster,” he said, his voice low and raspy.  He pointed to the wet ring on the glass table and tutted at her while shaking his head.

Jon’s sudden shift in demeanor made Sansa relax.  This was better.  This was _much_ better.  She knew exactly how to deal with him like this.

“Really?” she huffed with extra flair.

Without a word, Jon lifted a dark brow in challenge.

“You’re serious?”

Again, nothing.  Not a word, not a peep.  Jon just stood there smirking at her.

“Fine.  Whatever.”  With an added bit of drama, Sansa rolled her eyes at him as she stomped over to the coffee table.  She purposefully brushed past him, shoving him to the side just a tad to make it look like she was good and irritated.  Lifting the beer, she snatched a coaster from its holder on the corner of the table and daintily sat the bottle down.  “There?  You happy now?”

“Absolutely,” he said.  “Gotta make sure Davos gets his money’s worth. . .you’re supposed to be teaching me how to behave, right?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes when he grinned.  She’d bet good money that if he hadn’t clammed up, the next two words that would have rolled off his tongue would’ve been “Mistress Sansa.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she growled.  “Let me know when dinner gets here.”

With his self-satisfied chuckle ringing in the air, Sansa’s bare feet slapped against the hardwood as she marched straight to the kitchen, all the while hoping that he hadn’t seen just how damn hard it was for her to keep her lips from curving into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rock'n roll might not solve your problems, but it does let you dance all over them." - Pete Townsend


End file.
